I’ve given up attempting ways to look freakishly fabulous at The Blonds’ freakishly fabulous runway shows. No matter how hard I try, sequined blazers/colored contacts/guy-liner just do not work on me. Besides, there’s Adam Lambert for that, who, FYI, was front-row at last season’s show and whose fascinating caked-on concealer could have made its very own beauty blog post. Anyway, I felt like a nerdy neurotic Greenpoint girl thrust into a Limelight-heavy world and having the dizzying time of her life last night. For starters, the extensive elevator line to get thee to the Blonds show was more intimidating than my high school locker-room. You know, that kind of intimidating where you can look (see also: fantasize) but don’t touch. Back then the inner dialogue went something like: "Hmmm, I wonder what’s under that sweaty jock’s baggy gym shorts?" Yesterday’s mental note: "I wonder if I can find that leggy club kid’s sassy horn headpiece on Etsy for my next themed dinner party?"

Once inside the show, all eyes and flashes were on none-other than Carmen Electra clad in, duh, a salacious bejeweled black corset, as well as the Blond-est of them all: DEBBIE F’N HARRY. The iconic Blondie front-woman did not rock blindingly bright sequins, but instead remained flaw-free in a fur hat and sunnies. You show them how it’s done, girl. Then, minutes before the show’s start, I was seated next to some insanely enthusiastic creature in what I’d like to describe as a DIY “coat” made of golden dollar store streamers, but we’ll get back to that later.

Bootylicious models – with ass cheeks bouncing and (I think intentional?) nip slips – pumped down the runway in an array of insanity, with my personal faves being the Victoria Secret’s wings with a goth glam twist, a white fur straight jacket, and a corset made of rope. And don’t even get me started on the witchy metallic nails and the super-teased housewife hair. I found myself feverishly typing iPhone notes throughout the show that read ridic things like "psycho chic," "massacre metallics," "tug-of-war couture" etc. I’m gonna go ahead and assume that The Blonds were inspired by ladies who lunch: lunatic addition and/or keep a copy of ‘Valley of the Doll’s bedside. I mean, there was a puffy poodle dress adorned with knife illustrations, k? The killer (hehe) soundtrack also kept up with the cray – a whispered super creepy voice-over said side-eye-inducing things like "come play with us" which eventually segued into a Madonna "Vogue" spoken word moment. #ART! Onlookers, with their feathered eyelashes and Rainbow Brite weaves, were vocally enthusiastic and gasps and smizes were in full force. Then there was that time when the music faded and the lights went to black and, tbh, I was concerned for my safety/dignity thanks to the aforementioned DIY golden-streamer-coat coat clad freak-show next to me. But that was just a build up to the ultimate sartorial-slaying show-stopper: the intense lights and psycho soundtrack resumed as Phillippe Blond, in full-on-fabulous drag, worked the runway in a seriously form-fitting sparkling ruby-red jumpsuit to squeals from her adoring fans. After the sartorially surreal experience, I went to the Purple Magazine party and got really drunk and then had nightmares about what I would wear to next season’s show.